Intolerance

There was a time when just the sound of Tracy Morgan's voice made me want to punch a kitten.  I could barely sit through a commercial, let alone any of his SNL skits, without wanting to lash out in an effort to stop the offensive onslaught that was attacking my mental status.  Movies were definitely avoided, when possible. Watching "The Longest Yard" and "Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back" had me at my wit's end, and being such a huge Kevin Smith fan, it I managed to white-knuckle it through "Cop Out".  Thankfully, throughout the last few years of Tracy Morgan exposure in mainstream media, I've avoided the urge to punch a kitten.  It's not been easy, but I've survived the anguish and turmoil.  

It's not been until lately, maybe the last year or so, where my mental anguish has subsided.  When Tracy Morgan's offensive tones are overheard by my overly sensitive ears, I no longer fantasize about inflicting violent tendencies on juvenile felines.  Through the magic that is the Howard Stern Show on Sirius Satellite Radio, the many on-air interviews that Howard has done with Tracy Morgan over the years, I've learned to, not only accept Tracy Morgan's voice, but even become a fan of sorts.  I understand the man, a little more, and appreciate his unique brand of comedy.  I'd even surmise that when I learn that he's going to be on the program that day, I sit up in my seat a little more, and look forward to the experience.

Drop To Your Knees

Suffering from back pain, I found myself in the fortunate situation a few years ago, where I was able to replace my decrepit old spring-filled mattress with one made of foam rubber.  While it is not like those advertised on late night television, boasting space age memory foam that conforms to your natural rolls and folds, it has proven to me in the years since it's purchase that a supreme level of sleep and comfort can be achieved.

Costing a fraction of what the Tempur-pedic brand is priced, I've not suffered from severe back pain since that first night that I bedded down.  It used to be, that I would literally roll out of bed, barely able to move.  My back hurt so much from years of abuse and a multitude of terrible car accidents, that I was in pain for most of my waking day.  Since I bought the foam mattress, nearly no pain at all, in my hours of operation.  Other than that from physical over-exertion, that is.

At the time of my purchase, I also experimented with a small foam cushion that was supposedly conformed to the natural curvature between the base of my head and my shoulders, but I never had much luck with that one.  Since that time, due to what some may refer to as "thriftiness", but who are we kidding?  I'm a cheap bastard.  If I can't justify the price for something, then no matter how beneficial it might be, I'm not going to shell out a single dime for it.  That being said, I've never invested in any of the memory foam pillows until today (03/04/2013).  I bought a couple from Costco that were reasonably priced plus a hefty instant rebate at the cash register, so I'll be trying those out very soon.

On my way from the sales floor to the check out line, though, I passed these bathroom mats.  It wasn't the price that caught my eye, but the description.  For the life of me, I can't understand why one might require memory foam for a bathroom mat.  The technology seems like it'd be wasted for something so frivolous as a bath mat.  You step out of the tub, onto the mat, stand there for maybe a minute while you towel off your goodies, then step off.  Why would someone require memory foam for that?  Then it donned on me.  Like a flash bulb went off in my head, a series of still pictures whisked past my mind's eye, all depicting myself in several situations, all of which involved myself and the bathroom floor.

I don't drink anymore and haven't for well over a year.  I don't have a problem, but consuming alcohol is something that I don't do very well, anymore.  On occasions of the past though, I'd ready my bathroom for my arrival home.  I have bad knees and can't kneel on hard surfaces., so a "just-in-case" sort of scenario was required.  This act simply involved my placing a freshly fluffed and folded towel at the foot of the toilet, on the off-chance that there might be vomiting involved on my return home.  Surely, this, of all things, would be one of the benefits of owning a memory foam bathroom mat.

However, it wasn't very often that I'd find myself at the helm of the porcelain bus, upchucking a technicolor yawn of the snacks previously consumed.  More times, than not, I'd simply pass out on the floor.  In the morning, I'd find myself just about anywhere.  One time it was in the middle of the living room with my pants down around my ankles, which would've been fine IF it had been my house.

Perhaps instead of a soft memory foam bath mat, the company should think about a memory foam backing for carpet.  That way you could pass out anywhere in your house and at least have a well rested and relaxing sleep.  It'd probably help stop the room from spinning too.  Or slow it down, at least.

Tarantino Stole My Dream

I am not an actor.  Not by any means.  I aspired to be one, as a young child, like many kids do.  However, when my parents told me I would never be good enough, I had to accept that reality.  After all, they were grown ups and I was just a little kid.  I figured, they knew what they were talking about.

After so many years, this reality must have crept into my subconscious, as this morning I had the strangest of dreams.  Not to say that I never have strange dreams, because over the years, I have had some doozies.  For instance, as a child I do recall being scooped up and eaten by King Kong.  Odd for a herbivore to devour a human being, especially one as piddly as I was.  I remember not being chewed, but popped like a pill and the journey down to his stomach was lengthy enough that I could look all around me and process the scene of which I was passing, rather quickly, by.  Bananas.  Tons and tons of bananas, lined his throat.  Pretty f*ckin' strange, huh?

Hence the reality that the dream I awoke to this morning being of equal strangeness.  Although I wasn't consumed by an over-sized movie monster, it was bizarre all the same.  I dreamed that I was on the set of a Quentin Tarantino movie.  I was standing in a line with actor Eli Roth and a red-headed actress whom I did not recognize.  We each had a special weapon in our possession, used more for slicing than cutting.  I recall that my fellow companions regaled at the uniqueness of my blade.  We were going over our lines for the scene that we were about to film.  Standing back, the two actors ahead of me were trading off lines, back and forth, like the true professionals that they were.  Although I was in the very same scene, I realized that I didn't know a single line.  "I'm not an actor!" I thought to myself, "How did I get into this situation?"  Never the less, I joined in the rehearsal, adlibbing my lines as they progressed, them pausing to look at me, momentarily, before giving me words of encouragement.  Apparently, I was there to be comedic affect.  I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

There was already talk that this was going to be an Oscar-worthy motion picture, and though I knew I'd never be nominated for such a prestigious award, it was refreshing to know that I was going to be a part of something so grand.  Quentin finally appeared before us, just as a row of train cars rolled up.  It was gleaming in the morning sun.  Jet black with a thick bright gold stripe running lengthwise from it's nose all the way to it's fourth and rear car.

Quentin engaged in some idle chit-chat with my co-stars before turning to me.  "Ah, Jeff.  Glad you made it." he said, as though we were kindred spirits separated by time, "Follow me, I have a special job for you to do."  He lifted a velvet rope that I hadn't seen up to this point.  I ducked under it and followed the famed director off towards the train.

"The train that you see here, contains all of the recording devices that we're using for this movie." he explained to me, brandishing his arm in such a grandioso manner. "However, we haven't anyone who is able to operate this train."  Quentin paused for a moment, then turned to look at me.  "That's where you come in.  I need you to run this train for me.  Ensure that it's onset at all times.  Can you do this for me, Jeff?  This is a very important job.  I need you to do this."

Preposterous as it sounds, I heard these words escape my lips, "But Quentin!  I'm an actor!"

I know, right?  Growing up my parents never believed I'd ever be good enough for such a profession, so why would I think I was now?  Never the less, I said it.  Spoken words of desperation to one of Hollywood's finest movie generals.  Even though minutes before, I was questioning why I was on board for a motion picture of this caliber, I was now confident enough that I could pull off the role for which I was hired to play.

Placing his arm on my shoulders, Quentin was a little hesitant to inform me that he and the producers had decided to cut my part from the movie.  I would still be paid the agreed upon salary that was declared in my contract, however they still needed me to work for my paycheck.  Given my "history" of driving a forklift, it was a given that I'd be qualified to operate this specialized train.  I failed to see then, and even now in my conscious state, what the hell one has to do with the other, but I hung my head in defeat and soon found myself sadly looking down from the cockpit of the train, at the world that could've been.